Chapter Two: Lofty Aspirations

Countless memories flashed before his eyes like scenes from a film: carefree childhood games; his father’s worried face as he grew older; and then, as he matured, those ferocious faces one after another. Outwardly, these men showed his father great respect, but behind closed doors, their contempt was palpable. What did noble birth matter? Even if you were an emperor, what difference would it make? In the end, you were nothing but a puppet, a fish on the chopping block awaiting slaughter.

At that time, Yang Lian's status was anything but low. He was the emperor’s eldest son, named Crown Prince, and destined to inherit the throne of Southern Wu upon the emperor’s passing. Yet, in the presence of Xu Zhigao (later Li Bian), who held true power, he was simply awaiting death.

Eventually, his father died under mysterious circumstances—undoubtedly killed by Xu Zhigao. Yang Lian once naively believed he might escape with his life. After all, as the saying goes, even a tiger does not eat its own cubs; Xu Zhigao had married his daughter to Yang Lian—would he really rather see his own daughter grieve than spare her husband’s life?

But Yang Lian miscalculated. For those who pursue great ambitions, sentiment is a trivial thing—a mere son-in-law meant nothing before the empire’s grand designs. On a boat, he was poisoned. In desperation, he overturned the table and threw himself into the river.

Countless men also plunged into the water, determined to hunt him down. As he fled, a fisherman’s family discovered his identity and, grateful for the Yang family’s past kindness, risked everything to protect him. The fisherman died in the attempt, and Yang Lian narrowly avoided exposure. In the end, he hid in an outhouse, waiting until the danger passed, and escaped with his life.

Such memories were unbearable. The soul that now inhabited this body discovered that its original owner had endured scenes of utter ruin: the fall of a country, the destruction of a family, and a life steeped in humiliation.

Afterward, he was constantly hunted. Only a master loyal to the Southern Wu royal house risked his life to protect him, faking Yang Lian’s death to halt the killers’ pursuit, at least for a while. The old man then brought him to the territory of Wuyue. There, master and servant settled in a fishing village, living quietly for two years.

During these two years, the original Yang Lian’s experiences had twisted his character. He became capricious and cynical; he laughed, raged, and mocked the world. Though he admired beauty, he remained proper; though he gave generously and defended the weak, his fondness for gambling and drink earned him the villagers’ scorn.

He was a complicated man—so much so that not only did others find him hard to accept, but even the current Yang Lian struggled to reconcile himself with his new self. In the village, most accepted his money but disdained his rakish ways. Only a rare few, remembering his kindness, treated him without prejudice—such as Zhang Qili, who always greeted him with a smile, remaining cheerful and independent no matter how often her elder brother Zhang Qinian scolded her.

No one knew how long passed before the rush of memories finally settled and Yang Lian’s mind quieted, though his head still rang. If he hadn’t been unconscious, the pain would have woken him again and again. Deep within the original owner’s recollections there festered a powerful resentment—the grief of a ruined home, the sorrow that warped his personality. His mockery of the world, his laughter and anger, were all attempts to dispel that sorrow. He knew there was no hope of restoring his dynasty or avenging his family, and so he abandoned himself to despair.

But the soul from the later era realized—from a television program watched not long ago—that after Xu Zhigao seized the throne, the Yang family was imprisoned in Hailing. Struggling to survive, the family suffered such torments that their tragedy moved all of Wu to pity.

Later, before Later Zhou’s Chai Rong attacked Southern Tang, Emperor Li Jing of Southern Tang, fearing betrayal, ordered the execution of the entire Yang clan. How could Yang Xingmi have guessed that the little boy he once saved and renamed Xu Zhigao would one day seize the kingdom of Wu? And that his own son, Li Jing, would go further still—exterminating the family of his father’s benefactor, killing every last man, woman, and child, and erasing Yang Xingmi’s line from history? In his grave, Yang Xingmi could not rest in peace.

When Yang Lian’s mind finally cleared, he understood the era in which he now found himself. Though his body had not changed, his soul and character had undergone a transformation. No longer was he the Yang Lian who drowned his sorrows in drink, but one filled with fighting spirit, determined to seize his fate in this chaotic age.

The mighty Tang had ultimately collapsed under internal and external strife, ushering in the era when men devoured each other—the Five Dynasties and Ten Kingdoms. Though Yang Lian knew little history, the memories of his body’s former owner gave him some understanding of the times.

At present, the Central Plains were ruled by Later Jin, in the third year of the Kaiyun era. Yang Lian himself was in Gusu, on the shores of Lake Tai, in a small fishing village on the border of Wuyue and Southern Tang. Wuyue, being weaker, had always acknowledged the Central Plains dynasty as its overlord, and thus also used the Kaiyun era name.

In Gusu in the third year of Kaiyun, the plum rain season brought torrential rains, rising rivers, and countless refugees fleeing disaster. Lake Tai’s water bandits took advantage to pillage, and the people suffered wretchedly.

Yang Lian had fallen from his horse while fleeing, losing consciousness. The Zhang Qinian family had rescued him.

But none knew that the present Yang Lian was no longer the same as before. When he finally awoke, still with eyes closed, he heard steady breathing nearby, along with the patter of rain. His body felt weak, likely from a high fever. He moved his lips, gently murmuring, “Water…”

The even breathing cut off abruptly. The beautiful young woman who had been sleeping nearby awoke and, seeing Yang Lian’s lips move, approached and touched his forehead. The fever had broken. Her face lit with joy.

Yang Lian opened his eyes and gazed carefully at the girl before him, his eyes soft with affection. Having inherited the body’s memories, he could not help but smile at one of the rare people who had genuinely cared for “Yang Lian.”

Already Yang Lian had resolved that, in this turbulent world, he would never again be at the mercy of others. His recent ordeal was proof enough. Though he was not the man he once was, his face remained unchanged—surely it would draw many storms upon him.

Yet, always bold and unyielding, having come to this world, how could he choose a life of mediocrity?

Yang Lian’s eyes shone with clarity and tenderness as he looked at Zhang Qili, making her blush crimson. She hurried out, only to return a moment later with hot water and a cloth to wipe his face.

Unaccustomed to such attentions, Yang Lian reached for the cloth and accidentally brushed her delicate hand—it was soft beyond compare. Zhang Qili pulled her hand back, handed him the cloth, and quickly retreated again.

Yang Lian wiped his face, then placed the cloth back in the warm water, his thoughts drifting. He knew little about the Five Dynasties period, recalling only the broad strokes.

At present, the Central Plains were ruled by Later Jin, but soon it would fall to Later Han, and then Later Zhou. The South would see little change; Southern Tang, having seized lands from Min and Chu during their internal chaos, would soon lose them again.

Later Zhou’s Chai Rong was a hero, though his early death gave Zhao Kuangyin his chance—thus beginning the Northern Song, with its century-long standoff against Liao. Yet most history lessons had long faded from memory, and exact dates were a mystery.

By his reckoning, with his own knowledge and this body’s memories, Chai Rong and Zhao Kuangyin should now be young men, just coming of age. As for Li Yu, so famously cuckolded by Zhao Guangyi, he would be about fifteen or sixteen.

Thinking of this, Yang Lian grew a little excited. In his student days, he had been a brawler, neglecting his studies for fights. His mother doted on him, but when persuasion failed, she sent him to a martial arts school. There, he excelled, but his fighting nearly killed opponents and cost his family dearly, leaving his mother exasperated.

At the thought of his mother, Yang Lian’s mood darkened. As an only child, he now found himself thrust a thousand years into the past—how heartbroken must his mother be?

Zhang Qili brought in a bowl of rice porridge. Seeing Yang Lian’s gloom, she thought him still unwell and asked gently, “Sir Yang, are you still in pain?”

Yang Lian returned to himself, shook his head, and said, “No.” After a pause, he added, “From now on, don’t call me sir—just call me Brother Yang.”

Zhang Qili was surprised, then a blush spread across her cheeks. She nodded, placed the wooden bowl on the ground, and said, “Brother Yang, you’ve been unconscious two days. Eat something first.”

“I was unconscious for two days?” Yang Lian was taken aback. This sleep had indeed been long, but at least his consciousness had fused with the body’s former owner.

“Of course. I was worried sick,” Zhang Qili replied, her hands nervously clasped before her.

Yang Lian gave a wry smile, thinking it was no wonder his strength was gone—he hadn’t eaten. Setting down the cloth, he picked up the wooden bowl and ate heartily.

Zhang Qili suppressed a laugh, watching him with her chin propped in her hands as he ate.

After one bowl, warmth returned to his belly and he felt much better. Seeing this, Zhang Qili brought him another.

Yang Lian ate more slowly this time, asking between bites, “What time is it?”

Zhang Qili counted on her fingers and said, “It should be the second or third watch of the night.”

In these days, without clocks, people judged time by sun and stars. Now, with night and heavy clouds, Zhang Qili could only guess.

Finishing his porridge, Yang Lian put down the bowl and stood up.

“There’s more porridge—I’ll get another bowl,” Zhang Qili offered, standing as well.

“I’m full,” Yang Lian waved her off and stepped outside the tent. The rain had stopped, but the air was damp and musty, making him uncomfortable.

The sky was overcast and black as pitch. Yang Lian looked around—the campfire still burned, and the air was chilly. He went over to warm his hands.

Without a word, Zhang Qili followed, sitting beside him at the fire. Seeing him silent, she began to chatter, mostly about her worries while he was unconscious.

Yang Lian was deeply moved. Thrust inexplicably a thousand years into the past, he knew no one here. The first face he saw was this young woman, and he felt a natural attachment. By the firelight, her cheeks glowed rosy with beauty. He listened, responding now and then.

Having lived two lives, Yang Lian’s knowledge remained intact, and fused with the memories and language of this body, he had no trouble conversing with Zhang Qili. Instead of the crude flirtation of the former Yang Lian, his subtle compliments delighted her, making her heart flutter and her cheeks bloom with color.

After a while, Zhang Qili, exhausted from worry and lack of rest, unknowingly dozed off against Yang Lian’s shoulder. He helped her to a soft couch, then stepped outside the tent to think.

What did the future hold? Now, Yang Lian was utterly alone. A man unwilling to live an ordinary life—how should he proceed? Should he seek service in Wuyue, or Southern Tang? Or perhaps Later Jin, soon to fall? The master who had protected him said someone would come to fetch him in three months—but who, and with what intentions?

Yang Lian pondered for a long while and then smiled wryly. With the Yangtze and Lake Tai flooding, the fishing village had been destroyed and the people scattered. At present, just surviving was a challenge—how could he worry about anything else? For now, he could only take things one step at a time.